


Act II

by AtomicPen



Series: Wings Straight and Swift Will Bring Us Home [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: 100 Days of Fic, 100 Days of Sebastian, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Ficlet Sequence, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 21:33:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 14,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicPen/pseuds/AtomicPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Leaves on the ground scatter in the face of a strong wind.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> <br/><i>series of short ficlets from my tumblr's 100 Days of Fic challenge <a href="http://atomicpen.tumbltr.com/prompts">masterlist</a>, in chronological order, following Sebastian at various points throughout the second Act</i><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dance

That’s all it ever was. A shifting play, an ever-moving board, except there were no spaces marked—you had to know them. And know them he did. He knew just where to put his foot, tilt his hip in relation to his shoulders and chest. He knew how to pivot and reach behind his back, to slip around his partners with deadly grace and watch them fall with red ribboning around their throats. Deft fingers never missed a beat or fell from rhythm as he switched his blade to his bow hand and reached back over his shoulder for slender shafts.

Breathe in, draw back. Kiss the string and breath out. Loose it dancing through the air.

He stepped back and spun on the ball of his foot, elbow whipping out to hit the back of a rushing man’s head. Sebastian loved every movement of this dance, and he could slip out of the skin of both Chantry Brother and Heir of Starkhaven and into that of a rogue, a fighter. His brothers had always been made for the harder arts of war—Sebastian looked at Fenris and his greatsword, cleaving paths through bandits like they were blades of glass—but Sebastian was taken under his grandfather’s wing and shown the steady grace of the bow. He learned the art of fighting with dagger in hand at the same time as he learned the courtly and Highland dances, and the two would forever be wed in his mind and muscles.


	2. Secrecy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **continuation of[grey](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760090)**

He had left his bad habits on the other side of the Chantry doors, once he walked through them of his own free will. Well, all but one.

None of the others ever knew--never even had an inkling. What Sebastian did when he wasn't with Hawke was his own concern, as was theirs, and they probably all assumed he was just puttering around the chantry, praying every free moment he got. He wasn't sure why he didn't want them to find out--old habit, more than likely, coupled with the fact that they'd probably tease him about it relentlessly, kept him from being open about it.

It was another one of his failings, he supposed, but he enjoyed it, and it was for him alone to know about. Pride, the Grand Cleric and various chantry mothers would have named it. He didn't care, even if it was one vestigial remainder of his old, sordid life.

It wasn't all that bad, he allowed as he slipped into a plain tunic and breeches. Not anymore, anyway. And it was never really bad to begin with--it was something he knew would infuriate his parents to no end when he started, but that was probably the worst it could have been. Now it was just something he didn't want to stop. Buckling on his boots and belts and pulling on a worn grey cloak afterward, Sebastian gathered up two stuffed packs and slung one over his shoulder, holding the other in his hands by the straps. His bow and quiver went over-top the cloak for quick and easy access, and the hood he drew up to shadow his face. It was predawn, anyhow, and while there were not many people about at this hour, old precautions dictated his actions.

Inconspicuous, Sebastian slipped out the back of the chantry and into the gardens, though he was only there long enough to quickly pad through the dewy grass and climb over the wall with a nimbleness his armour rarely allowed him. Some days he longed for the practical studded leather armour he used to sport in his more rakish days, but the white steel did provide more protection, despite its heavier and clumsier nature.

Through the vacant streets of Hightown, down to a gate leading out of the city in Lowtown. It was in Lowtown where he was most worried of being spotted; Hawke's crew were mostly congregated here or there in Lowtown, and they were the most likely to recognise him. They hadn't yet, and they didn't this time, either. Once he was outside the City of Chains, he smiled to himself, chin and jaw rough from the shadow that had grown there overnight, and he never bothered to shave until he came back from these excursions. He didn't take them as often as he would like, admitting to himself as he walked that he wanted to be around the Chantry just in case Hawke had need of him. That was dangerous ground--more dangerous than what he was doing now, but he could no more stop himself from wanting to be by her than he could stop wanting to draw his bow again.

The sun peaked over the horizon as Kirkwall shrank behind him, and Sebastian pushed his hood back and breathed in the farmland air. Northeast of the city lead to Sundermount, but the land between the coast and the Vimmark Mountains was arable enough to keep a number of farms busy with growing crops for themselves and the city itself. There were a few places that could be called villages on the outskirts of the city, and it was to one of these that Sebastian headed. In his packs were treats--one bag for children, and one for their parents. These people were commoners, but since he had started sneaking out of Starkhaven's castle holdfast after his first hunt in the woods all those years ago, he had felt more comfortable around them than he ever did in the presence of his own family or any of the nobles he had met. They were practical and down to earth, and he loved every minute he spent with them. Most annums he would find some excuse from the Chantry to come out to the countryside and help the farmers and their hands celebrate, and came out whenever he felt too restricted by the city walls in-between.

Today marked no annum, but with the spring air still sweet and cool, he wanted to be away from the bustle of city life and feel the mountains loom behind him again--even if they weren't his own. Sebastian would never be a commoner, but at least when he left Prince Vael or Brother Sebastian behind in the city, he could simply be Sebastian to them and nothing else. In his mind's eye, he was following the golden-eyed ghost into the forest, a falcon spreading its wings after spending too much time in the mews.

And the best part of it all? No one knew of any of it but him. This was nothing but his own.


	3. Elation

It was a morning like any other mornings, and one Sebastian had come to learn not to look forward to. Even years later, beyond the tired obligation of his parents and the apathy they pretended, at least this one day, to not have, he did not care to mark it's coming.

Someone, however, had found out a few years ago. Personally, he blamed Varric and his constant digging around in matters in which his nose did not belong. Now, of course, they all knew and every years since wanted to make something of it. He would always do his best to dissuade them of the notion. They had only known for the past three years, however, and every time some dire circumstance that demanded Hawke's attention would always come up, and everyone would disperse and he would get pushed to the back of everyone's mind until it was too late. And that was just fine with him; Sebastian's birthday was just another day to him, and that's how he wanted to keep it.

None in the Chantry made a fuss--he hadn't ever told them the day he had been born, and no one, not even the Grand Cleric, had pressed him for it. To Sebastian, it was nothing worth celebrating. As his father and brothers were always wont to remind him in the past; Caldwell was the heir, and Mathe the spare in case anything happened to Caldwell or his sons. A rueful, bitter bark of a laugh escaped Sebastian as he readied himself for the day in his cell. What a cruel turn of fate that he would be the sole survivor of the direct Vael line--excluding extended family, of course.

Still, as much as he didn't care to make something out of the day, he reflected on it as he left the Chantry to run a few errands for himself. He supposed he did celebrate it, in his own little ways. He was out to buy himself more oils to keep his armour polished and his leathers supple, and he was thinking about  making some more arrows for himself. Perhaps this evening he'd indulge in a little Starkhaven whisky he'd been keeping around for special--or drastic--situations. The first year he had been in Kirkwall had been before he took his vows, and he had celebrated the way he had most other years: buried deep inside a woman or two. That had always seemed the best way to do it since he was old enough to want such things. Once he took his vows, he had found himself reflecting on his family during his birthday, rather than going out and making merry of any sort. These past three years, however, had been entirely different.

The first year he had found out they knew, Isabela had, in so many words, displayed her well-kept personal quarters. She had taken him to the back of the Hanged Man under some pretense he couldn't recall anymore, and flashed him the bare olive skin beneath her tunic and told him she'd give him a present any time--birthday or no. It had taken him a few moments to regain his composure and decline her offer, and she had merely winked at him and told him it would still stand regardless. When he finally had come back to the main room, it was only to find Hawke and her crew gone, with a message left with the barkeep that something had come up near Sundermount they had to attend to immediately. Sebastian was more grateful to be spared facing Isabela right then and there, than anything else.

The second year, Hawke had brought him, Merrill, and Fenris along the Wounded Coast to flush out some tal-vashoth who were prowling some of the smaller cave systems, and had decided on a whim to camp out on the beach under the stars once they were done. Exhausted from the day, none had remembered what day it was before they had fallen asleep, but he had lain awake for a little while, watching Hawke take first watch, and looking how the stars framed her hair like a net of diamonds.

Last year, he had been afraid they would all remember and try to throw a party for him, but at the last moment, Anders was called away for a sudden influx of wounded patients, and Hawke had taken Aveline and Merrill along to try and figure out what had happened, and Varric was already out scouting his own contacts for a few jobs they were trying to track down. So, he had sought Fenris out and they had shared a bottle of wine and talked about their disappointments in the past.

Those were, Sebastian realised as he strolled the Hightown markets, perusing the stalls as he went, the best birthdays he could remember outside those of being a very young boy, before his grandmother died. He smiled at that thought, and picked up a dark glass bottle of oil to inspect it.

"Sebastian!" Hawke's voice cut through the chatter and murmur of the crowd and he turned to see her approach him. The days were turning crisper; his birthday was in Solace, just before Funalis, and Hawke wore a thicker tunic below her leather armour.

"Hawke," he greeted, straightening as she neared him. "What brings you about the market today?"

"Probably the same thing that brings you," she quipped, and he did not fail to notice the gleam in her eyes.

"Ah--polishing oils?" he supplied, holding out the dark vial still in his hands.

A grin split her face like she was planning something. "Since when do you buy anything for yourself, Sebastian?"

He was afraid where this was going. "When it is practical that I need something?"

"Don't play dumb with me--you know very well when you spend some coin on yourself, and you know that I know as well."

Sebastian sighed, and fiddled with the glass bottle. "Hawke, I don't want any special--"

"Oh, I think you'll change your mind," she cut him off. Tossing the armour merchant a few silvers for the polishing oil, Hawke grabbed Sebastian by the arm and began dragging him through the streets. "I've got something _very_ special planned for you."

Despite himself, Sebastian felt his ears begin to burn as he could do nothing more than to allow her to lead him and slip his new oil into one of his pouches. Hawke's voice was low and curled into his ears like smoke, and for once, he found himself looking forward to whatever surprise his birthday would yield.


	4. Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **continuation of[white](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760081)**

Before Hawke, he had stood with his face turned fully to the sun. All he could see was light--he drowned in it, it was so pervading. He told himself it calmed him, and to a degree, it did. Before Hawke, he knew an encompassing peace that clung to him like armour. For once in his life, he had found contentment outside archery or books or dance.

But that was before Hawke.

When she arrived, he couldn't tell at first if she were like a cloud that passed over his sun, or if she were a such brighter light, she outshone the one before her. After a while, he settled on the shadow. He resisted getting close to her. He had found his peace; he had found his light. Sebastian was done with the shadows. The more time he spent with her, however, the more he felt the coolness a cloud provided from the unrelenting sun. It took him nearly six years to realise what a boon and blessing her shadow was--he couldn't fully cherish the light he had discovered without the darkness she helped him remember, just as he could not fully appreciate what he had in the dark of his past without the light he learned in the Chantry. They were two sides of the same coin, he was learning, and he was part of that coin.

What his parents had wanted him to be, he could and would never be. The destructive path he had been driving himself down was equally as bad for him. He had always tried to go to extremes--too much light, too much dark; old habits from being the third on a wheel of sons and trying to be noticed over the elder two.

Hawke, though... Hawke allowed him to realise that he could do both. He could be varying degrees of both. He did not have to turn his back on the solace he had found in the Chantry, but neither did he have to abandon the things he loved about a more rakish lifestyle.

No light without dark, no dark without light. He didn't have to be one or the other, and by the time he finally understood that, it was almost too late.


	5. Despair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **continuation of[red](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760070)**

Nothing seemed to change after he found the root of it all. He had discovered who hired the Flint Company to murder his family, but the dreams never really stopped. For a while, however, his sleep was so deep from sheer exhaustion that he didn't remember his dreams. He knew they were still there, though. Sebastian was beginning to believe his ghosts would never really leave him alone. He had even retrieved his grandfather's bow (it seemed so trivial to mourn the loss of a material item next to the death of his family, but he had anyway), but even that was still only a pinprick of light in an ever-encompassing gloom.

He hadn't worn his armour since the Harimann's--despite cleaning it several times, he could still see Lady Harimann's blood on it. He could still see his parents' blood on it. He had washed himself every day since--sometimes twice--and never wore even the same shirt twice, but he still felt the oily presence of the desire demon sliding over his mind and through his veins. It was a sickly smoke, and he could almost feel it filling his lungs every time he drew a breath. Hawke and the others hadn't called on him in a week, and part of him began hoping he had seen the last of them. How could he keep fighting by their side when he couldn't stand himself?

The third day after the Harimann's, he had by and large stopped talking. The sisters and mothers deemed it either silent meditation or silent penitence. He did nothing to dissuade either theory, though he knew the real reason was because he could no longer find his voice. His parents were dead, his brothers were dead. Their killers were dead, and those that were behind everything were dead. And still he felt no better. Still he felt there should have been more that he could have done.

Had he been sooner, had he been less selfish, had he been the better son--he couldn't stop reliving the past decade or so in his mind. He slowly convinced himself it was on his shoulders to lay the blame for their deaths.

What made it all worse, the demon had been right. Part of him wondered if he would enjoy ruling Starkhaven, if he were suited for it--what's more, that part wanted to find out. But how could he even set foot back in the city after all he had done--and more importantly, not done? Did Starkhaven and its people deserve a ruler who had led a life of so much inaction?

He hardly knew a month--to the day--had passed when Hawke stepped into his cell in the Chantry, asking softly after him. He lay on his bed, on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling. He vaguely heard her say how they had been worried when they didn't see him for so long, and that she was sorry she didn't stop by sooner, but something or another had held her attention. And why shouldn't it? He was just an impotent prince, exiled by a dead family that never wanted to claim him as their own, and Hawke was someone who made things happen, who got things done.

He didn't look at her when she sat down on his bed, though his eyes were open. She grabbed his face and turned it until her eyes held his, and he was surprised by the anger he saw in her.

"Sebastian Cheremous Vael," she snapped, and he blinked. "You need to get up and come outside."

When he didn't respond, she continued. "Is this any way to go about life? I mean, Isabel and Varric always assumed Chantry life was boring, but it surely can't be _this_ bad. The Harimanns are dead, your parents are avenged, and you got your grandfather's bow back.Are you ever going to use it? Or are you going to let the wood rot into a mess and waste away on this bed? Don't you get soft on me, Vael, or I will personally whip that princely little ass of your into shape again. And that is a promise, not a threat."

Her words were like a slap to the face--though knowing Hawke, that would have been her next step, anyway--and he shifted a little, feeling some bright life push through his sluggish veins. His eyes searched her face, and he remembered just how beautiful she was--even angry, even covered in dirt and... when did she get blood spattered on her face? Had she come directly here after coming back from her errand? Had she been that worried over him?

"Hawke," he began, and she opened her mouth as if to say something, but didn't. "My middle name isn't... Cheremous."

He watched a grin split her face at his tone, and he was surprised; it hadn't sounded hollow and lost like he feared it would have. It sounded... normal. Through the gloom Hawke had come, and Sebastian felt the edges of a purpose again. It wasn't much, but it was something to grasp onto, even if it were only by his fingers right now.

He lifted a hand and she took it in her own, tightening her fingers around his and lending him her strength until he remembered how to find his own again.

He sat up and swung his legs over the bed to sit beside her. It was a long road he had to climb, but Hawke would be there to drag him along when he could not move himself.


	6. Irreparable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **continuation of[red](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760070) and [despair](archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760142)**

"That's what I worry about most," he said, not meeting her eyes.

She nodded, though he didn't see, the expression on her face sympathetic. "I can understand how you feel. We've all lost someone that we wished we would have mended better."

His jaw clenched and relaxed. "Hawke... this wasn't just someone. This was my family. Not one person that I was related to, but my _entire family_."

Hawke turned her head to him, regarded him coolly. He watched her out of the corner of his eye this time, and saw the hurt slide over her face before being replaced by one of her masks. Realisation dawned on Sebastian, and he closed his eyes. _Another one_. Why was he so skilled at burning bridges and severing ties?

"Believe it or not, Vael, I do know something of what it feels like. To lose more than one of your close family, to never be able to apologise for something stupid you said when you were ten, or that night you disobeyed them and ran away for three days." Her voice was even, but he knew her well enough at this point that she was very angry at him.

"Hawke, I..." A thought occurred to him. "Are you referring to your father?"

Her silence and the turning of her head away from him answered more loudly than anything she could have said.

He reached out and touched her arm; though she didn't move it away or flinch, he could tell she did not want him that near her. He didn't remove it. "You've never spoken about your father before... not without Bethany around. Were you... were you not close to him?"

"Not that it is any concern of yours, but no. I wasn't very close to him." She hesitated, then her timbre dropped. "I didn't have magic to attend to."

Sebastian's face softened, and he felt the sharp pang in his heart again, though whether from knowing what it was like to be unloved by a parent or because he cared for Hawke, he was not sure. Both, more than likely.

"I--I'm sorry Hawke. I was mistaken." He had never apologised to his parents, to his brothers, just as they had never apologised to him. He would not allow the same thing to happen with Hawke. "I... I sometimes forget that I am not the only one with problems like my own."

She turned to give him a wan smile, and he knew his harsh words hit closer to a nerve than she would ever admit to, and he never intended to.

"Well. At least neither of us is dead yet, that we cannot say that to one another."

He winced involuntarily. He might not have burned the whole bridge down, but it was certainly smouldering right now.


	7. Apathy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **continuation of[red](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760070), [despair](archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760142), and [irreparable](archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760157)**

It had been two months since Hawke had come to drag him from his self-deprecating slump, and it had been two months less a day since she had a whole, civil conversation with him.

He realised he had not had... the best choice of words. He had been so narrowly focused on his own hurts, he had spoken callously to her, forgetting that she had lost family as well. Of course, her losing family did not endanger the entirety of a principality, but that didn't make it hurt any less for her.

He had been trying to get her attention for the last month, deciding it had been more than enough time to seethe and move on from his lashing out in a moment of blackness. Yet, he still could not see her alone to speak with her. She hadn't come by the Chantry without at least two others since, and when he finally gave in and tried to visit her at her estate, Bodahn either turned him away at the door, or made excuses for her so he could not see her. His patience was wearing a little thin on the matter.

What was worse, she still brought him along on certain jobs or excursions, needing his sharp eyes and bow. By itself, that would have encouraged Sebastian that she was opening up to him again, except for the fact that she barely spoke to him at all. Her masks were up and in full force, keeping him out, and when he tried to get her to talk with him by jogging up to her lead, she gave him flat looks and a cold shoulder, or worst of all, a dismissive, distracted reply.

"Give her some time, Choir Boy," Varric told him when he caved and hunted the dwarf down to get help trying to eke _something_ substantive out of her. "There are certain subjects she gets real touchy about, and you can't always predict them." The crossbowman eyed Sebastian. "What did you say to her, exactly? I've never actually seen Hawke quite _this_ evasive to her friends before."

Sebastian averted his eyes and let out a small breath. "It... may have been something about not knowing what it was like to lose family."

To his surprise, the dwarf barked out a laugh, and it caused him to raise his eyes to his companion once more. "Really? You said that to _Hawke_? You might have gotten a better reaction talking slaves to Broody, or mage oppression to Blondie. Hawke's not too keen on people speaking badly of her family, you know that."

"Aye, now I do. And I didn't insult her family," Sebastian added wearily. "I just... Said stupid things to her," he finished, somewhat lamely.

"Why yes. It looks as if you did." Varric reached up and patted Sebastian's arm. "Don't worry. She'll come around eventually."

Sebastian rubbed the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "I certainly hope so. This aversion and coldness is beginning to drive me mad."

Varric watched the royal archer for a moment, seeing something similar that he also noticed in Hawke from time to time. A thought struck him that he decided to keep to himself for now. "Oh," he said instead, a knowing tone creeping through his words. "I have a feeling you have nothing to worry about."


	8. Teeth

There weren't many good memories Sebastian had of his mother, concerning him. If she wasn't cold and distant toward him, she was either disappointed or angry with him. But, if he had to say one good thing about her--and he tried to think of at least one new good thing about each of them every day, or every week when he couldn't manage every day--was that she knew how to smile. Whether it was a simple curve to her lips, arcing them into a little bow, a smile that said she was holding some secret in her mind to which no one else would be privy, or the carefully maintained court smile that never, ever reached her eyes. It was one of the few things he inherited from her.

There were some times, few and far between, when Sebastian had caught some his mother's true smiles. Being small and having the ability to sneak around undetected had both its rewards and drawbacks, but Sebastian eventually counted more rewards than not, especially the first time he saw his mother show teeth in her smile.

That was how he knew it was her real one. It wasn't her secret smile, it wasn't her facade of a smile, but a true, genuine one, and that was the day his mother suddenly became mortal and more human to him. That was what made all he did as he grew older and more reckless sting all the more after their assassinations.

_Beatrix Vael always wore her hair up when addressing the court, and Sebastian could hardly recall a time when he saw his mother's hair down. That time, however, movement had caught his eye as he skulked down one of the wide corridors along the eastern wing of the castle stronghold, pretending he was a raider or some other thing he was wont to do as a young lad. The motion turned out to be the waterfall of dark auburn hair his mother boasted, the gently curling locks falling down almost to her waist. His father stood, close to her shoulder as she sat at her vanity, looking at him through her mirror. Sebastian hesitated by the doorway, knowing they couldn't see him from their angle, curious. His father reached out and pulled another pin from her head, letting more of her hair free. He had no idea his mother had even had so much hair--though it explained why his was so very thick--and she smiled at him._

_Had he been older, he would have recognised that sort of smile instantly--and others would have told him he had the same--but even as unknowing as he was at the time, he knew it was something private between his parents he should not have witnessed._

_Even as his mother tilted her chin up and his father reached a hand down to slide along her graceful neck, Sebastian turned and ran back down the corridor, not wanting to see what happened next._

"Strange," he said aloud, unaware that he had spoken. His brow was knit as he fiddled with a whetstone between his fingers. The bundle of arrows lay across his lap as he intended to sharped the heads of his arrows while they waited out the night in camp on their way to Sundermount.

"What's that, then?" Hawke's voice came clear and startlingly close to his ear. He jerked and twisted his neck around to see her hovering over his shoulder. It felt too much like the memory of his father standing over his mother's shoulder for his comfort.

Clearing his throat, Sebastian replied, "Ah, just remembering something. Unrelated to, well, anything else, really. Nothing to be concerned about." Why had he been thinking of his mother?

Hawke smiled at him, a wolfish motion with the barest flash of eyeteeth. That was why. She always smiled like a feral animal. He wondered if she had given anyone the sweet secret smiles of intimacy, or if they were dangerous even in the bedchamber. Sebastian swallowed and tried to push those thoughts away.

"Remembering what? And who said I was concerned about anything?" Maebh gave him an accusing look. "Sebastian Vael, are you trying to hide things again? You might have been a rogue before me, but you're also rusty. And older. So, out with it."

He frowned at her teasing jab about his age and lapse in keeping up with his more unscrupulous skills, and at the fact that she always could see right through him. "I was recalling a time with my mother and father."

One of her eyebrows arched. "And... what's so strange about that?"

"Well... it was actually a pleasant one."


	9. Smooth

Memory was a strange thing at times. He could never recall holding it as a child, yet he remembered the feel of it in his hands. He never remembered seeing his grandfather draw it, but somehow knew what sort of draw weight it would have when he finally did so himself.

It was made from strong wood and the rare, exotic horn of a great kudu from the Nevarran plains--masterfully put together to look like they flowed into one another. The wood he knew well: it was strong and sturdy enough to withstand the greater compression and stress within the limbs of the long composite bow. The horn made the bow so much more powerful than other bows its size, and it was all bound together in specific places with sinew. Those were also intentional, Sebastian knew. He had never made a bow, but he knew that using those materials in that fashion made the bow superior to regular straight bows or recurves. That was why it was so difficult for most normal archers to draw--it was thick and took a great deal of practice to draw back to its full weight.

After Hawke returned it to him following the Harimann debacle, Sebastian lost himself in mastering his grandfather's bow. Gawain Vael had been a bear of a man, with broad shoulders and great arms that Sebastian could still clearly see in his memory's eye. Now he knew why--intimately.

But he had to keep at it, he would tell himself as sweat streamed over his aching back muscles, when his shoulder and arm threatened to shake and give way. He had to make his shots with this bow as quick and smooth as he could, so that no one would fall from his inability to handle his own bow.

He needed to make his grandfather proud, and be able to call himself worthy enough to use his pride and joy.


	10. Flight

When he was young, he used to dream of flying.

For as long as he could remember, he had loved the sky and the birds that flew in them. He longed to be like them--to be free to go where he willed, when he willed. His parents had introduced him to falconing when he was a child, at first too young to even hold a bird for very long, but he loved to touch their feathers. He could still recall the feel of the pinion feathers between his fingers, long and smooth. Afterward, he had found one on the ground--it was grey-blue with black chevron markings on it, and it was perfect in his eyes. For weeks, he had carried around with him, placing it carefully placing it next to his bed every night before he went to sleep.

That was when the dreams started, he remembered. He had called the feather magical for a long time, until his mother had heard him saying such things, and dragged him to his father for a reprimand. That was the first lesson they taught him, though not the one they thought they did. His parents had tried to teach him the dangers of magic, to be wary and suspicious of it. All he had learned was to hide his treasures better, and to hold his tongue more closely.

When he was older and allowed to go falconing by himself, he immediately was drawn to the one peregrine their mews boasted--an older bird, and well-trained. The first time he was allowed to hold him, Sebastian felt his heart flutter in his chest. There was raw power bundled in this little creature perched upon his arm, he could feel it. He felt the same power within himself, and ached to stretch his wings. Whenever he released the peregrine, he watched him fly with envy, and eventually took to using peregrine pinions for his cock fletch.

Decades later, in Kirkwall, Sebastian often found himself gravitating to the highest point he could readily find, to stare up wistfully at the clouds. So many things kept him grounded--duty to his murdered family (always an albatross around his neck; always the wrong bird), commitment to the Chantry (a case of trying to fly too close to the sun, in his mind and memory), even at times when Hawke called upon him (though like was drawn to like, and a hawk knew the falcon's mind more often than not). They all demanded his time when he didn't necessarily want to give it, they all dictated where he went and where he didn't. Times had changed, but they also hadn't. He was still the same boy, still the same man, chained to the ground when all he wanted was the sky.

Hawke found him like that sometimes, with his head tilted back, distant look in his eyes. Sometimes she asked him what he was thinking, but the only answer he could ever think to give her was, "flying."


	11. Create

"Hawke?" He brushed aside a low-hanging branch, ducking as he went. “You’ve been gone quite the while. I’m not sure we need that much firewood for one night."

He saw her, sitting back on her heels, shoulders hunched toward the ground. Her back was to him, and she was fiddling with something on in front of her. It didn’t seem as if she had heard him, so he walked closer. A small flash of green illuminated before her, and his brow knit.

"Hawke…?" he repeated, head cocked to one side and trying to discern what she was doing.

She nearly jumped out of her position as she half turned to him. “Sebastian! You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that," she scolded, cheeks ruddy with embarrassment.

He arched an eyebrow at her. “I wasn’t particularly sneaking, Hawke." He slid his feet to circle around her. “What were you doing?"

The blush across the bridge of her nose deepened. “Ah—nothing. I wasn’t doing anything."

That gave him pause, and his eyes went back to her face. A bemused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but did not spread across it. “This is… very unlike you." He took two long strides and was by her side, sinking to a crouch as well. He didn’t say anything, but looked her face as she stared at him with suspicious eyes, then looked at her stance, her hands. They were normally still, perfectly still. Now, however, they twitched slightly.

Sebastian reached out on impulse and grabbed one of her hands. She tried to jerk it away, but he held fast. They were warm and had callouses, and he ran the tips of his bare fingers over her skin. He heard her suck in a breath, but that wasn’t what caught his attention the most. Her skin hummed with something other than warmth. His brows knit again and he looked up at her, still holding onto her hand.

"Hawke, what—?"

She averted her gaze from his, curling her fingers inward. He waited for her to answer—he was a patient man, and he knew that particular virtue was not one she had learned as well as he. It was only a couple of moments before he could see her crack under the cool of his eyes.

"I just…" she began, then shook her head. “I was trying something."

He waited.

Hawke bit her lip and rolled her neck to the side. “Okay. Bethany and our father… You see I…" She stared down at her hand still in his. “There’s a little magic that I can do, too."

He was so surprised, he let go of her hand. She didn’t look up at him and drew her hands into herself. “It—it’s not much, mind. And nothing special."

"Was that the green glow I saw?"

She winced a little, the guilty child caught in the act. “Well, yes. I only recently dabbled into it, not that I want to learn any more—or even that I thought I could—but there was this one thing that I found I could do—"

"Hawke," he interrupted gently. “You’re babbling."

"I suppose I am, aren’t I?" A rueful smile caught her lips. “Well, it’s not every day one gets caught trying out a spell one could never do before. I suppose… it must be how Bethany felt, a long time ago." She wet her lips and slowly lifted her head to look up at him. “Does this… do you…?"

His face softened. “No, I don’t." He leaned to the side to look at where she had been hunched over when he walked up behind her. She watched him and glanced back. His mouth parted slightly as his eyes came to rest on a single curving flower with long petals the colour of flames. “Is that—"

She bobbed her head. “Yes. That’s the only thing I can do. Kind of silly an assassin like me being able to create flowers, isn’t it?"  
He tore his eyes from the flower back to her. “You created that," he said again, more a statement than a question the second time.

"Yes, Sebastian, I… created that. Right now, I can only do one at a time, but… I was thinking I might make a whole bouquet after a while. Something to brighten the place up at home, I suppose."

He couldn’t help the smile that broke through. “I think that’s a wonderful idea."

She blushed brightly and broke his gaze again. “Just… just don’t tell Bethany. Or Anders," she mumbled. “Or Varric, definitely not Varric."

Sebastian reached for her hand again, this time taking it gently, and she didn’t pull away. “I won’t tell anyone."

"Promise? I can’t have my reputation sullied by pretty flowers, you know…"

Always a joke with her. One day, he would show her she could let him in beyond the facade she paraded for the rest of the world. Perhaps he would start bringing her flowers.

"I promise."


	12. Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **continuation of[create](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760003)**

"So how long have you...?"

"Mm. About three years."

"Does Bethany know?"

"I--I don't know. I don't think so. Maybe?"

"Would she be able to sense anything?"

"You mean, like attracting like, or some such thing? I don't think it works that way."

"But you're not sure."

"Well, no. But she didn't say anything about knowing Anders could cast spells when we first met him."

"Anders isn't particularly subtle at hiding he is an apostate."

"True. I think... I think there are ways to tell, but it's through using magic."

"Or Lyrium."

"Right... Templars. Well, I doubt I'm really in any danger regarding them. At least no more than any other assassin in this city who also happens to be the Champion of Kirkwall."

"You don't think they wouldn't hesitate to act against you if they found out?"

"Over a flower? I don't think it likely."

"So... why does it turn that colour when you do it?"

"Red? I can make it any colour I like, actually. I was thinking rich, vibrant colours. Anything but white."

"I meant the glow of actually doing it."

"Oh. Green. You know, I'm not sure. Anders seems to have the same thing happen when he heals, so maybe... because it's creating something new? Or creating something out of something else? I don't really know how it all works, you know."

"You can do it, and you don't even know how it works?"

"I'm an assassin, Sebastian. I know blades and I know blood. I don't know magic."

"Fair enough, I suppose. Have you... considered asking Bethany or Anders about it?"

"Not really, no. I didn't really want anyone to find out about it."

"I'm sorry, Hawke, I--"

"No, no, it's okay. It's not something I should be ashamed of, I know, but... I trust you not to tell anyone."

"Thank you, Hawke."

"Mm."

"So... What's it like?"

"Hm? What's what like? Casting magic?"

"No... well, yes. But, I meant more of having something in common with that apostate."

"His name is Anders, Sebastian, and he's saved your life and mine more than once over the years. You could at least give him that much respect."

"Forgive me."

"Don't tell me that you're jealous?"

"Of Anders? Unlikely."

"No, I think you are. You're jealous that I have something in common with him."

"Hawke..."

"Hush. I think it's kind of cute. I like you a little fallible."


	13. Drink

She was so stubborn. Even barely conscious, and she fought every step of the way.

"I knew we should have brought Blondie," Varric muttered. Fenris shot him a dark look, though silently Sebastian was inclined to agree with the dwarf. “Spiders were never Hawke’s forte."

"Are spiders really anyone’s forte?" Fenris asked as he frowned at the mumbling Hawke before him. She was covered in blood, but most of it wasn’t her own, and a wound causing her distress wasn’t readily available. None of them had been paying enough attention to her when she went down, and now none of them could find her wound. Anders would have been able to sense where it was and knit her back together with his magic, but he wasn’t here, and they had to make do with what little they had.

"I’m sure someone, somewhere," Sebastian said under his breath, brow furrowed. “I think she had a concussion," he said, louder, to them all. They looked over at him.

"Well, shit," Varric hissed through his teeth.

"Perhaps that mage would have come in handy, after all…" Fenris conceded. “But we have to get her back." He knelt down to pick her up.

Something stirred in Sebastian’s memory. “No—wait!" Ignoring the looks he got, the archer twisted to dig into a pouch hiding behind his right hip. With a small triumphant noise, he drew out a small vial filled with a salmon-coloured liquid and dropped to one knee beside Hawke. Gently lifting her head, he pulled the cork of the vial out with his teeth and pressed the opening to her lips. She mumbled something incomprehensible to him. “Drink," he instructed. She tried to shake her head, but he held it steady. 

“Drink," he repeated, using a more firm tone. It worked and she sipped up the liquid as he slowly tilted it back until it was all gone.

After a moment, her eyes fluttered open and went from Varric to Fenris before finally focusing on Sebastian.

"Wha—what was that?" She started to sit up, and Sebastian helped her until she shooed his hands away and did it herself.

"Elfroot," he explained, sitting back on his heels. “Merrill has a whole collection of the stuff, and we took some to Lady Elegant one day. She said she could make it into a powerful healing concoction that might help."

"So it did," Hawke said as Fenris helped her to her feet.

Varric shook his head. “Handy lady, that Elegant. Remind me to send her a little ‘thank you’ note later."

"Me, too," Hawke agreed as she touched her head, then glanced back at Sebastian for a moment. “Well, let’s get the rest of this loot and head back to the city. I’m not inclined to stick around for more spiders today."


	14. Heal

"No Hawke again?" Sebastian asked as he poked his head into Varric's private room at the Hanged Man. The dwarf shook his head, glancing up from the cards in his hand. Isabela sat perpendicular to him, smirk on her face as always, and Fenris was stationed opposite the host dwarf, brows furrowed and face entirely readable. Sebastian let out a small sigh and held back the urge to help his friend out at the game.

"She hasn't been out of that house in two weeks," Isabela murmured. "No matter what tactics we try."

Sebastian's brows knit as his eyes flickered over the ground, ideas running through his head. "I think I might be able to help."

Varric shot him a look. "You know, just because you've been in the Chantry a couple of years, doesn't mean you know how to help Hawke."

"No," Sebastian agreed. "But having my own family murdered helps give unique perspective."

The three companions all lifted their eyes to him and saw the set of his jaw just before he turned and strode away from Varric's room and out of the tavern. "That's a man on a mission," Isabela noted, pulling a card from her hand and placing it on the table. Fenris leaned forward to peer at it, then sat back, soft groan escaping his lips.

"If he can cheer Hawke up even a little bit," Varric said, taking two cards of his own and tossing them down, "I might even buy him a drink."

____________________________________________________________________

 "Ah, messere Hawke isn't feeling much like visitor's today," Bodahn said as he tried to stop Sebastian from going up the stairs to her room.

"Well, she's in luck, then," the archer replied calmly. "I'm not a visitor." With his long legs, he easily sidestepped Bodahn and went up the stairs two at a time.

Despite his haste to get up the stairs, Sebastian came to a halt several feet before Hawke's closed door. The hall was quiet, and he was mildly surprised Bodahn hadn't pursued him. He shouldn't question the why at that moment, however, as it was allowing him to do what he went there to do--perhaps Bodahn hoped he could rouse Hawke from grief. It wouldn't be pretty, he knew, but it was necessary to heal. He also knew that.

Steeling himself against whatever might greet him, Sebastian walked forward to knock on her bedroom door.


	15. Shake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **continuation of[heal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760037)**

The room was dark--so much so, Sebastian had to wait a few moments for his eyes to adjust. It was also silent--it felt like a tomb more so than any actual mausoleum he had been in. After the dark grew to dim, he took his time scanning the room until his gaze came to rest on a hunched form on the bed he could only assume was Hawke.

He debated calling out her name, to let her know he was here, but she probably already knew. Instead, he padded closer to her, the sounds of his heavy boots muffled by the thick Orlesian carpet the floor of her chamber boasted. He noted she didn't move, even when he rounded to the side of the bed she sat on. Remaining silent all the while, he paused for a moment to look at her--head bowed, hair falling limply around her face and shoulders, her housedress rumpled and looking as if she hadn't changed out of it in the two weeks she had sequestered herself--before sinking gently down on the bed beside her.

She stiffened a moment, holding herself away from the greater depression he made on her bed, but still stared at the floor.

"I don't know what the others have said," Sebastian began, hushed and slow. "And while they all have lost someone, they've all experienced grief and had to deal with death... They don't know anything at all."

He heard her breathing still completely, saw her head lift just the smallest bit. He continued, turning his face away from her to stare off into nothing himself, memories flooding through his mind like the rapids of the Minanter.

"They don't know what it's like to lose family--all their family. Fathers and brothers and sisters and mothers. They've lost friends, we all have. But losing family is different. It's an ache that will never be fully eased, a hole in your heart that will never be completely patched. And for each family member you lose, they have their own hole torn." He swallowed, the lump in his throat suddenly growing. "I know, Hawke. I know better than any of the others that no words will ever make the days as bright again. No words will ever make the nights less lonely. Memory is your worst enemy right now--even the good times are sharp and cutting." He closed his eyes and saw his brothers, his mother, his father, in his mind's eye. Clearest of all was his grandfather. "But the worst times... those are the memories that haunt you. You wonder why you didn't appreciate their company more. You wonder why you didn't try harder to mend rifts and rebuild bridges." He felt a mild shaking, and opening his eyes, he was surprised to see it came from his own hands. "Regret. Regret is worse than anything else, because now it's permanent."

Beside him, Hawke sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath and he looked over at her. Her face was lifted now, not looking at him, but looking up all the same. Tears stained her cheeks even as fresh tracks were being made.

"Maker," she breathed, and her voiced cracked. He suspected it was the first thing she had said in a long time.

In a fluid movement, he turned and enveloped her in his arms. She didn't resist, burying her head into the crook of his neck and shoulder. The sobbing came to her, finally, wracking her body in ragged waves. He felt wetness on his own face, and realised he never allowed himself to truly grieve for his own family. He had prayed, of course, but this was the first time he had spoken of it to someone. Perhaps his coming here to try and comfort her was for his own benefit, as well.

Closing his eyes, he rested his cheek against her head and murmured benedictions to the dead from the Chant and in the old tongue of Starkhaven, for both their sakes, as Hawke shook in his arms.


	16. Brown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **continuation of[heal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760037) and [shake](archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760057)**

It had been two weeks, and Varric told him she was at last going back out into the world. She wasn't upbeat, but no one expected her to be. Some of the light had come back into her eyes, however, and for that Varric extended gratitude to Sebastian for everyone. He, on the other hand, still wasn't satisfied.

The days were slowly getting warmer, and Sebastian had noticed in his recent visits to Hawke's estate, that her gardens were starting to look overgrown. Her mother must have tended them, he realised. It only made sense, with Bethany in the Circle and Hawke always gone. As he made his way to her estate, he found himself wondering if they had a garden in Ferelden when she was growing up. If her mother had taught her any skills with the earth. It could be Hawke didn't even know how to work the soil, but he found it more likely that she just couldn't bring herself to.

Bodahn let him in, informing him that Messere was out on an errand of some subtle nature, and Sebastian asked if it would be okay if he went into the gardens for a while. From the look on the dwarf's face, it was clear that the place was a sore spot, though whether from neglect or memory was uncertain. Beyond a moment's hesitation, though, Bodahn agreed and led him to the door in the kitchens. Sebastian thanked him and the dwarf left him to his own devices.

He stepped out into the secluded walled grounds and winced a little as he looked around. Weeds were choking everything, the rosebush had gone wild and was crawling up two different trees with its thorny tendrils, and the earth was uneven and patched from inattention and rains.

Well, Sebastian resolved, unlatching all his armour and removing his gambeson coat, there wasn't much else to be done about it. As he rolled up the sleeves of the tunic he wore beneath everything else, he peered from end to end of the garden for some sort of storage, and saw a bench that looked as if it could double as a box. There. He went over to it and smiled as he ran two fingers over solid metal hinges, proving his hunch correct. The top opened to reveal a stockpile of gardening tools. Giving the grounds one last rueful look, he began pulling out tools to look them over and set to one side or the other. He had the feeling it would be a long day.

First went the weeds. Where other flowers and plants were in danger of being uprooted, he carefully dug out and separated the root systems of the greenery he didn't want, then replaced the soil around those he did. He was coated in sweat by the time he finished that task, and stripped his shirt, entirely convinced the sun had come out from behind the clouds only because he was working the earth. Setting his tunic on the bench that held the tools, he picked up a tiller with iron prongs at the end of a long stick, to turn the earth in its dying patches. When he was about halfway along, small movement caught his eye right next to one of the prongs, and he crouched to investigate. With an almost triumphant grin on his face, he reached down and plucked a worm from between clumps of freshly tilled earth, bringing it up to look at it.

"Well," he said to it. "I was worried there'd be none of you left here. That's a good sign."

"Here's a bet I would have lost: the Heir of Starkhaven and Brother to the Chantry kneeling in my garden, covered head to to in dirt, talking to a worm." Hawke's voice startled him, and he turned to see her leaning against the open door frame, arms folded and watching him with a bemused smile threatening on her lips.

Placing the worm back in the ground, he stood--only begrudgingly noting the mild creak in his knees as he did so--and leaned against the tiller. "Worms are a good sign. When I first saw your garden today, I almost gave up all hope."

He watched her look him up and down, and for an instant a spark of that old Hawke came back. It was gone quickly, however, and her brightness withdrew again.

"You didn't have to do this, you know," she said to him quietly.

"I know. I wanted to."

She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it and thought a moment. "Where did you learn all this anyway? Aren't you royalty? Don't royals go up in a puff of smoke if they do manual labour out in the sun?"

He laughed, the sound rich and deep; it was the first real, involuntary laugh he had for a while. "Och, no, Hawke. At least, not third sons. I spent most of my time outside doing lots of hard work growing up. Of course," he added, wiping his forearm across his brow to rid it of sweat, "it was mostly punishment. But I grew to enjoy it. And I've continued with it at time in the Chantry." Sebastian smiled, more reserved now, and gave an almost reverent look to the earth. "There's a sense of peace in working the soil you cannot find most other places."

When he looked back up, Hawke was approaching him, worrying her bottom lip. "Mother," she began, but he heard the hitch in her voice. She stopped, and he didn't press her to continue before she was ready. "Mother always used to tell me that, too. Well, something similar, anyway. But I never got the hang of growing things."

He held out a hand to her, caked in dirt. She glanced at it, then back up at his face, but took it when he didn't move his arm. Drawing her close to him, he stepped out of the way so she could have full access to the tiller. Taking her hand, he wrapped her fingers around the smooth wood of the tool beneath his own.

"Twist with your wrist," he told her, and waited for her to begin before he added his own movement. "Now, lift up, then press down. There, that's it." After a few more turns with his hand, he withdrew his and took a step back from her, cocking his head to one side. "Keep going."

Giving him a look, Hawke nevertheless didn't stop. Five minutes passed, and when she looked at him again, he nodded back to the ground, wordlessly telling her to continue. Ten more minutes passed as she got into the rhythm, slowly advancing along the invisible line he had been following. She stopped suddenly, and looked as if she were going to collapse. Without thinking, Sebastian darted forward quick as a snake and caught her in his arms. She was smiling, though tears tracked down her cheeks.

"Hawke?"

Looking up at him, she said, "I understand. Thank you." Her eyes searched his, before she added, "You've got dirt all over your face, Sebastian."


	17. Lead

"I hate these things," he heard her say as he opened the front door to her estate. Varric’s low, rumbling reply came soon after, though the words were indiscernible. “You know I hate these things just as much as Mother loved them. She tried to make me go to them all the time."

As he closed the door behind him and took a few steps into the foyer, Sebastian heard Varric’s response.

"Your mother would have loved it, and people want to give their condolences. It's better in the long run to just let them do it. Despite her ways of showing it, she always did your best interests in mind, Hawke. May not be the interests you’re concerned about, but you can’t blame the woman for wanting to see her eldest happy." There was a pause, then he continued. “Besides, it won’t hurt anything to get to know and be seen by some of Kirkwall’s more prominent."

Their voices grew louder as he neared. “You know I don’t care about that, Varric."

"I know you don’t, but you're living in the old Amell mansion now, and that’s a mantle you have to wear." As Sebastian stepped through the doorway, Varric gave sound to his arrival. “Ah, and there’s our charming prince now."

Hawke turned in a swirl of skirts and anything smart that had been on his tongue to say to Varric’s quip flew right out of his head. Instead of the scuffed and scored leather armour he was accustomed to seeing her in, she wore a smooth grey dress that made the red in her hair all the more vibrant. Her sister had hair black as a raven’s wing, and from what he understood, her brother had sported the same colour. She, on the other hand, took after her father more so than her mother, and her father had rich auburn hair. On her, with her predatory eyes and grin when she was fighting, the colour reminded him of a red-tailed hawk. Fitting, he supposed. The dress dipped low and hugged close, belling out at the top of her hips. Sebastian’s mouth went dry and he couldn’t remember how to speak for a moment.

"H-Hawke," he got out, bending forward in a bow to hide his face for a moment, composing and smoothing his expression. Straightening, he smiled at her. “You look rather… lovely this evening."

She scowled, in contrast to the elegance of her attire. “Don’t you start on me, too. You know, I feel like a fish out of water in this thing."

"It is quite fetching, however. Brings out the blue in your eyes." Maker, now he couldn’t hold his tongue.

Varric grinned, looking from Sebastian up to Hawke. “I think we may have lost Choir Boy and stumbled over some strange silver-tongued prince after all." He made a vague motion with his hand. “But seriously, Hawke, you look great. You’ll be fine. Just don’t punch anyone at the party, okay? They’re nobles, not smugglers—well, some of them might be, but you could never get them to admit to it." He jerked his head toward Sebastian. “Princeling over there will make sure you don’t step on anyone’s toes, I’m sure. Metaphorically and literally. Don’t call me if you need me—it’s my night to make sure Daisy doesn’t get lost or kidnapped by crazy people tonight." With a wave and a laugh at Hawke’s dark look directed at him, the dwarf gave Sebastian a wink before heading out of the estate. Sebastian watched him go a moment, then looked back at Hawke, offering a companionable smile.

"It won’t be so bad as—"

"Oh, yes it will. Don’t try and convince me it won’t. You know, my mother was actually upset to hear that I was taking you along?" She snorted. “She wants me to find a suitor at one of these ridiculous soirees. Can you believe it? Imagine, me and some noble fop. I’d go mad."

He didn’t want to imagine it, not after seeing her in that dress. He cleared his throat. “Well, I can’t guarantee complete sanctuary from… suitors, but most nobles take a hint if they see a lady there obviously with someone." He offered her his arm. “Shall we, then?"

"If we must." Hawke walked forward—he caught a glimpse of her favourite boots underneath her skirt and had to hold back a chuckle—and took his arm. “I suppose it can’t be too bad. So long as they have some sort of alcohol there." Her hand rested on the muscle of his bicep, and she startled him by giving it a squeeze. “Well, Sebastian, I suppose I have to admit you do look good out of all that white armour. Blue suits you well."

He turned his head to catch her expression and was secretly pleased to find a blush spreading over her cheeks. “Starkhaven colours," he informed her. “I was surprised Bodahn took the time to find a doublet in them, and not something simpler. It—" He hesitated a moment. “It feels oddly comforting to be wearing them again. It’s been years since I’ve done so."

"Well, at least we match. Then again, grey goes with just about everything, but…"

He lifted a hand and placed it over the one looped over his arm. “You look beautiful in it, Hawke. Brings out your hair and your eyes. All the elegant noblewomen in all their rainbow finery will be jealous that you wear such a simple colour and dress with such grace." He had to remind himself he was trying to reassure her, not woo her.  
The blush deepened on her face, and a small part inside him reveled in it. “Why, Sebastian, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to charm me."

"Trying? Och, I suppose I am rusty, if I haven’t done it already…" he joked, pleased when she laughed as they exited her estate. “But truly, Hawke," he continued, “you have nothing to worry about. You went up against the Arishok and have proven yourself over and over—diplomatically and in the field. Nothing anyone who will be there has done can even hold a candle to that."

She smiled at him and they walked in companionable silence for a while, until the estate of the noble hosting tonight’s event came into view. They were ushered in the front door by servants, but once in the main hall within hearing of the gentle laughter of women and chatter of men, Hawke froze like he had never seen her do before.

He leaned close to her. “Hawke?" he asked softly. “Are you all right?"

A worried look sank into her features, and her face paled just slightly. “I just don’t know how to handle myself at things like this. Throw me up against bandits and blood mages, or shades and demons and dragons, and I won’t miss a beat. But that’s battle rhythm, and I sing it in my sleep. But quiet music played in the background of a noble’s gardens? I’m two left feet."

He got her walking again, by his side, toward the garden doors, opened wide for the constant flow of guests. They paused again by the threshold, looking out to the torch-lit grounds. He glanced over at her to see her swallow. He bumped her a little with his shoulder, enough to get her attention.

"Hawke," Sebastian murmured into her ear, sliding a broad hand to the small of her back to gently urge her forward. “Just follow my lead."


	18. Language

He whispered things to her. Sometimes he spoke them louder, but she still never knew what he was saying. He would dream of breathing the words into her skin before he remembered he shouldn’t. He had known from an early age on he had a deft tongue (discovered more ways the older he got), and he had always shown more of a natural affinity for the auld tongue than either of his brothers. That was the first time someone had really smiled at him—his grandfather was the first and last—and he had hunched over old books and spoke his way through fighting drills until he could converse as easily in the tongue of Starkhaven’s ancestors as well as in the common Free Marches tongue.

And now, whenever he saw her, the old words bubbled to his lips and he found there were times when he couldn’t keep them inside, and she would always give him this mild quizzical look, as if she liked what she heard even though she had no clue what he was saying. Probably best she didn’t know—and that no one else knew. Anders might have set him on fire by now.


	19. React

He dropped the coins in Tomwise's outstretched hand, and pocketed the recipe he just bought. A moment later, and he was on his way out of Darktown, trying to keep the smile off his face as he went. It was Hawke's name day tomorrow, and he wanted to give her something that she wouldn't just only like, but that was practical as well. The idea had come to him a few days before, and he thought it rather ingenious.

So what if he had never mixed a poison before? He had a recipe, and he could at least follow those, he figured.

Once back his simple cell at the Chantry, Sebastian laid out all the ingredients and tools he had gathered for the project onto his writing desk, and pulled the recipe from a belt pouch. Knitting his brow at it, he was fairly certain he could decipher what Tomwise had written, and so flattened it next to his mortal and pestle.

"Okay," he said to himself, fingers wiggling over the deathroot. "Simple enough." He picked it up and set to work.

Four spoons of toxin extract, what seemed possibly too much ground-up deathroot,  a liberal amount of the concentrator agent... Everything was going well. It smelled horrific after he started truly mixing everything together, but he supposed poisons were supposed to smell horrific. He sneezed as the fumes tickled his nose and a puff of green smoke erupted from the bowl the mixture was in. It settled, and as he mixed, the concentrator agent turned the concoction into a thin paste, vibrantly green. It was perfect.

He carefully poured the poison into two vials, then cleaned up his workspace. Turning one of the vials over in his hand, he smiled down at it. It was beautiful in its own way, the dark glass of the vial deepening the colour of the poison. Setting the one he held down in a piece of dyed suede next to its brother, he wrapped the soft leather around them and tied it with a thick blue ribbon. It wasn't fancy, but then again, Hawke wasn't greatly particular to fancy things herself. Practical and succinct, just like she was.

________________________________________________________

The next day, they all gathered at Hawke's estate. Varric, Merrill, Isabela, Aveline took the day off from guard-duty (well, a half day, at least), Anders came up from his clinic in Darktown, even Fenris was there. Hawke's mother was flitting back and forth between gracious hostess and overly-concerned mother, though it was difficult to tell if she were fussing over Hawke because it was her name day, or if she were fussing over the company she kept.

Sebastian arrived last, knocking politely on the door and waiting until he was admitted. He gave a bow to Faolan, Hawkes mabari war dog, and greeted Bodahn and Sandal warmly. He heard Isabela's ringing laughter come from Hawke's library, and so headed to join the rest of Hawke's friends, the suede package tucked in the crook of his arm.

He had certainly arrived late--it appeared they had already gone through two and a half bottles of Fenris's fine Tevinter wine, and Hawke was as rosy-cheeked as he had ever seen her. So much so, that she got up the instant she saw him and sauntered over to toss her arms around his neck.

"Sebastian! So glad you could make it," she said, too loudly, next to his ear. "We were all worried you wouldn't be allowed of the Chantry this late." Yes, she had certainly been drinking for a while.

He gave her a mild hug in return with one arm before awkwardly drawing back. "Aye, well, I am allowed out this late, seeing as how I'm here. I apologise for my tardiness," he added, but she waved him off and grabbed his hand to drag him to the rest of the group.

"Oh, hush. Don't patronise yourself for once and have a drink with us." She steered him to an open chair, and pushed him down into it. He couldn't keep in the chuckle as she then turned and took Isabela's wine glass--freshly filled--from her and handed it to him. The pirate protested, but Hawke ignored her. "There you are! All set."

He smiled and set the glass to the side, on the shelf of a bookcase against the wall, and offered her his package instead.

"Happy name day, Hawke," he told her as she made a soft sound of delight.

"Oh, for me? You shouldn't have." Greedily, she took it from him and rotated it, admiring the whorls of the suede and the deep blue of the ribbon. "It's so lovely I'm afraid to open it."

"Nothing's going to bite you, Hawke," he insisted. "Go on and open it."

Like a little girl, Hawke sank back down into her chair and tugged the ribbon open, causing the suede to fall away from the two vials. Her mouth shaped into a small "o" and she lifted one to peer through the translucent glass. "Pretty... What are they?"

Here Sebastian flushed a little. "Ah, a poison. For your blades. I thought it might come in handy."

"Where did you get this?" She wrinkled her nose as she popped open the cork of one and sniffed it tentatively.

He merely shrugged and looked off to the side. He didn't want to tell her he made it. Not in front of everyone else. She didn't comment on his non-answer as Isabela came back over to investigate Hawke's gift.

"What do you have here, Kitten?" the pirate asked, plucking the vial from Hawke's fingers. After one sniff, she held it at arm's length away from herself. Mouth turned down, she looked at Sebastian. "What is this supposed to be?"

Red crept further up Sebastian's neck. "Ah, something like 'Silent Death', I think..."

"Quiet Death?" He nodded. "Because it doesn't smell like it should. Where  _did_ you get this, Choir Boy?"

Sebastian fidgeted under Isabela's accusatory gaze. "Well, I--nowhere, actually. I got the recipe and thought I'd try my hand at it."

Hawke looked over at him wide-eyed, but Isabela was relentless. "Have you ever  _actually_ made a poison before?"

"Well, I--"

"Because if you had, you would know that adding too much concentrator agent would create a very, very undesirable reaction when applied to any metal."

"I don't think that I--"

"And you would also know that any well-made poison never, ever smells like poison. Especially one with 'quiet' in the name. Wouldn't be very sneaky if you could smell it coming, now would it?"

The corners of Sebastian's mouth curved down. "What sort of reaction to metal could it possibly have?"

In response, Isabela strode over and leaned in close to his face, so that their noses were almost brushing. He sucked in a breath and froze for a moment, until she drew back, holding one of his small throwing daggers. Spinning it expertly in her hand until she held the hilt, she poured a small amount of the concoction Sebastian had made onto the blade. Almost instantly, smoke began drifting up from it, and when she lifted it up to her face a few moments later, a hole had been burned clean through the metal. Isabela looked at Sebastian through it.

He swallowed, cast a glance to the second vial of the stuff still in Hawke's hand. "Quite... corrosive," he admitted. Varric let out a low whistle, but everyone else was silent.

Hawke broke the silence, standing up to take the vial back from Isabela, wedging the cork back in. She flashed a smile to Sebastian, who was intently staring at some spot beyond all of them.

"A poison's a poison," she quipped. "I already made some Quiet Death that I carry around, but I don't have anything that would burn through metal. Could be quite handy in never lockpicking again."

Isabela flipped his ruined dagger in her hand to catch the blade, offering him the hilt with a cocky smirk on her face. He took it, sighed down at the hole, then reached for the glass of wine Hawke had given him. So much for his poison-making skills.


	20. Yellow

He didn't take confessions. His accent gave him away, and he didn't feel right telling people what to do to absolve their sins, when he was so conflicted about his own. He was caught by surprise when an old woman approached him during his cleaning duties late one afternoon to request his services.

"I'm sorry, my lady," he told her gently, "but I am not the one to speak to about confessions."

"This one, you have to. There is no one else who can," she insisted.

He hesitated, searched her face. Though she was wrinkled, the set of her expression was still strong, and he sighed, relenting.

"Very well. What... Would you like to enter the confessional?"

She laughed, softly. "Oh, this isn't for me. It's for my husband. He can't leave home, I'm afraid, so you must come with me."

"Ah, all right. Please allow me a moment." She nodded and waited as he handed his broom to a younger lay sister, who obliged him by taking over his task. He walked back over to the old woman, whom he gestured to lead the way with his hand.

He walked next to her through Hightown's streets, speaking conversationally about mundane things. She remained tight-lipped about why he was the only one who could take confession from her husband, and after the second time he tried bringing it up, he stopped trying. She was kind about declining him, however, and was still strong in her strides; she reminded him of his grandmother, and he fell into easy respect of her. She was well-spoken in the conversation they held as they walked, and he was marginally surprised when she lead him into the slums of Lowtown, up the stairs to a run-down house, wedged between two taller buildings.

She took out a set of old iron keys and opened the two locks securing her door, and lead him inside. Instantly, he smelled sweetness and death. It wasn't a good sweetness, but the sickly kind that came off a person from too many years indulging in alcohol. He swallowed and waited as she went around and lit a few worn sconces on the walls, ending with two sticks of incense that were from the chantry. The smoke from the incense masked the foul scent pervading the house--either that or Sebastian acclimated more quickly than he would have expected. As she beckoned him deeper into the house, however, the smell thickened in the air, so much that he could almost taste it. He fought back a gag as he paused in the doorway of a bedroom, waiting again as the old woman lit more candles and went to the old rumpled bed. A man lay beneath the covers, half-hidden by shadows, and she spoke a few words to him in a low voice. It was in a different language, and though it was too soft for Sebastian to make out, it sounded familiar to him.

She looked back over her shoulder at him, and a ragged and wavering voice called to him, and Sebastian knew why the words were so familiar. The man called to him in the old language of Starkhaven.

He had been taught it by his grandfather, and there were several in the courts and in noble families who kept the tradition alive by learning it. But it was rarely spoken in everyday speech; only the most remote villages in the provinces of his principality used the old tongue as their native one. That was why only he could speak with the man, though he had to admit the old woman was banking a lot on the assumption he would be able to speak it. But she had been right.

He greeted the old man as he went to his bedside, sitting on the rickety stool the woman provided for him. The woman placed a hand--surprisingly strong in the fingers still--on his shoulder, smiling sadly at him.

"He knows the common tongue," she explained, "but this is easier for him, and his mind is going more and more these days. I only know so much of his tongue, but I do know he would want a priest at his end."

"M'lady, I have to tell you that I'm not--"

"Hush. It does not matter to him. You are what he needs you to be." With a few pats to his shoulder, she left him alone with her husband.

The old man reached out a hand to Sebastian, who took it in his own. Even in the poorly lit room, Sebastian could see the discoloured tinge to the man's skin, the darkened colour of the whites of his eyes, and he knew it would not be long. He gave the withered hand he held a squeeze and asked him in the old tongue if he had anything he wanted to say.  _I am what he needs me to be_.

The old man drew in a laboured breath, then began.


	21. Inebriation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **continuation of[yellow](http://archiveofourown.org/works/908819/chapters/1760125)**

He sat staring into his drink for a long while. Had he ordered this? He couldn't remember. He didn't think he had. If he did, he didn't want it any longer; if he hadn't, he hoped whomever did order it for him would not be too slighted were he not to drink it.

"Sebastian?"

Hawke. Of course it was Hawke who had ordered the drink for him. She had returned more or less victorious from some foray into the Deep Roads to save the sons of a merchant dwarf, and had gathered all her friends to celebrate. Sebastian was beginning to wonder if these get-togethers at the Hanged Man were less about celebration and more about Hawke reassuring herself her friends were still around.

"What's the matter? Finally had enough of the watered swill in this place?"

He looked up from the untouched mug in front of him, not feeling very celebratory or companionable all at once.

"Yes, I think that I have. Forgive me if I do not join you all this time."

Isabela, already three mugs in at least, swooped in to take his. "We wouldn't want this to go to waste, now," she says, taking a long draft from it.

Sebastian watches her a moment, his thoughts going back to the old man in Lowtown whose skin and eyes had turned yellow. His nose filled with the sickly sweet stench of alcohol clogging every pore and filling the bedroom he had been in, and most of all, he remembered the words the old man said.

Without warning, Sebastian shot up to his feet and backhanded the mug out of Isabela's grasp, sending ale everywhere. The people in his immediate area--most of which were Hawke's friends--all quieted down, and both Isabela and Hawke stared at him with widened eyes, too startled to be angry for a moment.

Then Isabela's eyes narrowed. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"You should stop," he told her, unaware of how heated his voice was. "You need to stop pretending alcohol is like water, going after it night after night as if you were a parched man in a desert."

The Rivaini's brows went up. "Are you really lecturing me on my drinking habits?"

"Sebastian, what are you--" The archer cut Hawke's warning off before she could finish.

"You think it's fine now, Isabela," he went on, then cast his eyes over everyone gathered. "All you who indulge more than necessary, it seems fine now." His gaze rested on Fenris, Varric, then finally, Hawke. "A good way to drown your sorrows, to numb the emotions running too rampant, to forget all the things you don't want to remember any longer, for just a moment. But it will catch up to you, and it will be the death of you." He was snarling now, he realised. It caught him by surprise more so than anyone else. "I pray I am not around for that day, when it finally does."

Angrier than he should be without knowing really why, Sebastian turned on his heel and left the inn, leaving everyone too shocked to think to stop him. As he left, he heard Varric's voice just before the door fell shut behind him.

"What just happened?"

Outside, the cool night air hit him in the face and made him take a breath. What did just happen? He hadn't thought he was so affected by the old man's confession, but it shook him to its core to think he might see one of them like that one day. One of the people he had fought beside, whose lives had been in his hands, who had his life in their hands. People he had shared bit of himself with, who had shared bits of themselves with him. Even the friends of Hawke's he didn't overly care for--they were still companions at some point. Even Anders, he wouldn't want to see, jaundiced and sick, on his deathbed because of a poison he inflicted upon himself.

Sebastian found himself walking through the maze of streets of Lowtown. He had lost which way he was going, and soon came out to the docks. He approached the edge of one and stared down into the water. They probably all thought he was acting the priest of the Chantry again, trying to be holier than any of them by avoiding such "base" sins as alcohol. In truth, he had come to enjoy the company of Hawke's friends--even those he would not have chosen himself, which, he supposed, might endear them even more to him. Perhaps he saw too much of himself in Isabela--thinking he was invincible in a world that dared him to try anything and everything. He hid behind a false inflated piety so they wouldn't want to get too close to him, so he wouldn't have to bear the pain of losing people he loved too dearly. He closed his eyes against the wind that blew in from the sea to whip his hair back.

He was just being selfish, and he couldn't stop it. He should always be there for them, Hawke's friends, his friends. He should be there when they needed to talk, when they needed him to listen. But he wasn't sure if he could always be what they needed him to be. Could he really take one of their hands and sit by their deathbed, listening to the secrets they had held over the years? Could he find the words to speak back to them when they needed most to hear them?

This was why he didn't take confessions.


End file.
